There's a desperation in the union of our mouths. You're clutching my shoulders and pressing your warm chest into mine. Our shuffling and the noise of...our breath takes up space in the stagnant hallway. You thrust your hips and I step back. We stumble. My back comes to rest pressed against the wall. You unbutton my work shirt with shaking fingers.I make a noise in the back of my throat and pull your ti-shirt over your head, exposing your chest to my hungry fingers. I kiss you collar-bone. I gasp. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked in a fluster manner. Embarrassed I tried to sit up and pull my shirt back around me.“You squirted milk. You just bloody well squirted milk!” The excitement in your voice was undeniable as you took my nipple back between your fingers. As your other hand caressed the white flesh small drops of liquid leaked from me and your tongue flicked it straight into your mouth.And that was how it started. Checking on line we found that enough. Ionce watched him drain half the tavern's stores of vodka in a singlenight! Had a... a revelation!" He wiggled his hands in front of hisface and looked up toward the sky. "Found God! He's been a self-righteous prick ever since... although, I'll admit, he cleaned up good,and he's helped a lot of people." He sighed. "But then he decided hewanted more." The mayoralty?" I asked.He scoffed. "I was never mayor! I was never elected! Nobody demandedan election before Ossie, so it's always been. Your pour yourself a paper cup, sip it, relishing the cold liquid as it calms you, still avoiding her pleading gaze.Finally you turn in one smooth movement and survey her nakedness, making sure she can see the slight curl of your lip, the amusement in your feral grin. You want her to know, to feel it.Yes - you recognise her.No - you will not help.She is not quite naked. Yet. Your assistants have left her simple white bra and functional cotton panties on. She clearly wasn’t planning to entertain.
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On Sunday morning August 1, 1943, while on hisway to bomb the oil refineries at Ploiesti, Hank's B-24 was shot downby a German ME-109 over Campina Rom
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